


At the Bottom of the Ramp

by iybms



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aggressive Rollerblading, Getting Together, Illustrations, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Lance (Voltron), Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Strong Language, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28037433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iybms/pseuds/iybms
Summary: Lance is usually the first person to befriend new rollerbladers at the skatepark; it's a small community, and he's a friendly guy.But not this time.  This new guy looks the epitome of edgy and unapproachable, and he's stealing all of Shiro's attention.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 77
Kudos: 1340
Collections: Creative Chaos Discord Recs, Klance Fics I Really Enjoyed





	At the Bottom of the Ramp

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not repost my writing or my artwork. My art can also be found on twitter and on instagram, both @iybms.

"Lance, can we _please_ go back to the box ledge? Or the half-pipe?"

"You really don't wanna try the rail?" Lance asks. "I think you're ready for it. Seriously."

Though he doesn't outright argue with Lance, Hunk also does not look like he agrees. If anything, he looks like he's going to pee himself. Or throw up.

Lance sighs long-windedly, but smiles. "Alright. No sweat, big guy. The box ledge it is." As much as he wants to see Hunk try something new, he'd never pressure him into trying something he really wasn't down for yet. "Wanna give me just one more first?"

Hunk releases a giant, relieved breath. "Sure. Another new one? Or…?"

"Yeah!"

"Uh… soul plates or H-blocks?"

"Let's do…. H-blocks."

"Hmmm…" Hunk makes his thinking face, and Lance can envision him mentally flipping through a catalog of grinds. "How about…… No no no. Ohhhh god you would definitely die, nevermind. Maybe…" He starts to fidget nervously. "…Nope, not that either. Savannahs are the worst. You hate savannahs, right? Everybody hates savannahs. "

"Huuuunk," Lance whines. "Come _on_ , just _pick_ one."

"Okay, okay! How about… fakie 270 back unity?"

"Yes!" Lance claps his hands and rubs them together. "Now that's what I'm talkin about!" He rolls a little closer to size up the prospect. He imagines the trick on the rail, what it would feel like. He hums, goes back and forth, then rolls back over to the short ledge at the side of the platform and hops up to try the trick as a stall on the coping. Then once more.

Yeah, okay. He can probably do this.

After a last wiggle to shake out his limbs, Lance finally makes his approach, turning to roll backwards towards the rail.

His heartbeat immediately speeds up. As confident as he likes to appear, especially in front of Hunk, he's still nervous, and increasingly so as he nears where he has to jump. He's pretty consistent on rails, particularly with H-block grinds, but still. Even just the slightest wrong move and he'll fall off the rail in a twisted tangle of limbs and pain.

But fear won't stop him. It never does. He loves skating, despite the danger ― maybe _because_ of it, to at least some degree.

He winds up and jumps, turning three-quarters of a rotation to land on the rail, legs crossed and frames sliding smoothly along the metal. He picks up speed as he grinds down, and focuses on keeping his balance. His control becomes more tenuous and his heart beats faster, but he's almost at the bottom already. He's just gotta not get his feet caught on each other at the end―

Boom. He lands fakie on both feet, solid and perfect with that heady thrill in his blood from landing a brand new trick.

He looks back up at Hunk with an excited whoop. "Hoo-yeah! Did you see that?!"

"Hell yeah! You did it!"

"I nailed it!"

"You did!"

While Hunk is rolling down the ramp to join him at the bottom, Lance commemorates the auspicious moment with an extremely stylish victory dance. "I did it, uh huh! I did it, oh yeah! Oh hey," he pauses as a thought breaks to him suddenly. "Do you think Shiro saw it?"

"Uh, I dunno," Hunk looks around. "I thought he was still over by the flow section?"

Aw, just Lance's luck. "Damn."

"Wait, nope, I see him over by the box ledge. He might not have been looking over here, though."

Unfortunate, but reasonable. Even though Shiro is kind of like the dad of their little rollerblading crew ― the only pro amidst their ragtag group of amateurs ― ultimately, he comes here to do his own skating, right? Lance shrugs. "Well, let's go join. We were on our way over there, anyway."

"Yeah. Hey! Maybe you can try that 270 unity on the box!"

\---

But when they get to that side of the warehouse, Lance sees that Shiro is actually _not_ doing a lot of his own skating. And he's not watching anyone else in their crew, either.

"Who is that?" Hunk asks.

Shiro's attention is focused entirely on a guy Lance has never seen before. He looks maybe around Lance's age, or a little older, but definitely younger than Shiro. Is he new? Lance is usually all about welcoming new people to the crew, showing them the ropes around the skatepark. But for some reason, Lance is just… wary of this guy.

His bright red helmet contrasts with the black hair that sticks out from beneath it, and even further with his featureless, black clothing. His skates are black and red, too ― bright red frames, and black… Razors? no, Nimhs, first generation, it looks like. Where did he even get those? He's standing next to Shiro with his arms crossed and his head bowed, his eyes shifting around like he's judging everyone else. Everything about his body language radiates unapproachability, and his general image is that of an animal coded by evolution to evoke alarm, like a poison frog or venomous snake. He exudes a vibe of _stay away._

Why is Shiro making an effort to befriend this edgelord? Lance's brow furrows.

Maybe he's just being polite. Shiro is the most perfectly amicable man Lance has ever met, after all.

New guy moves from Shiro's side, and as soon as he's rolling it's like a change falls over his entire body. He leans into the ramps like he owns them. Every muscle of his body moves, flows, with cutting confidence. The speed with which he approaches the box is… absurdly unnecessary, but looks badass.

He turns backward just as he gets close to the approach, then executes, no joke, a fucking fakie 270 back unity, on the box ledge.

Lance's jaw drops, half-impressed, half-outraged. _He_ was gonna do that. Is that a coincidence?

Shiro cheers supportively, and Lance's eyes snap back over to him. He watches as the new guy rolls back up the ramp to Shiro's side, and Shiro immediately claps him on the shoulder, grinning brightly. Practically bubbling with praise.

Ugh. The new guy clearly doesn't _need_ Lance's friendship, since he's already got Shiro wrapped around his little finger like this.

"I dunno," Lance finally replies to Hunk. "But I don't like him."

Hunk gives him what he probably intends to be a comforting pat on the back. "Don't worry, man. He was going so fast, he barely touched the coping. And tricks are way harder on handrails, anyway."

Hunk is right, as usual, but Lance doesn't feel any less spiky about it.

\---

An hour later, the new guy still shows no signs of friendliness. Or wanting anything to do with anyone, other than Shiro.

Lance grows increasingly frustrated.

The guy is obviously good. Better than good, at some things. Better than Lance. At some things. They don't actually try many of the same tricks ― Lance can do a lot more grinds, but new guy can do a lot more airs. Lance has watched between his own runs, meticulously observing the guy's repertoire, but without getting close enough to cross paths. He's moved from the street section to the flow section, and finally to the eight-foot half-pipe. Shiro has only left his side a handful of times.

What is the deal? Were he and Shiro already friends before now? Some history between them is the only thing Lance can think of to explain their closeness despite the obvious differences in personality. Maybe that's why this guy is so good to begin with, Lance considers. Maybe he's been coached by Shiro in the past, the lucky bastard.

And yet, despite his manifold talents and advantages, Lance hasn't seen him smile even _once_ yet. It's like he's not even having fun.

 _That_ rubs Lance the wrong way more than almost anything else.

He's actually itching so bad for a confrontation, finally, that he heads up to the platform for the half-pipe.

New guy has been over here for a good twenty minutes, and he's by himself at the moment. The surly asshole doesn't even seem to notice Lance, which feels like yet another insult. When another person comes over to skate, it's common courtesy to finish your run and let them have a turn. The fact that this guy just keeps going is a fuckin breach of etiquette.

Isn't he getting _tired_? What the hell is he even made of?

Standing still and just watching like this, Lance is once again forced to acknowledge the dude's skill. He really is fantastic at airs, and the mini is the perfect setting to practice them.

Or show off. Or whatever. 

Lance can see him building up speed or guts for something, doing less flashy stuff in favor of landing high on the ramp, several times. When he does launch, he gets incredible air…

…and lands on the coping, in a raw, unforgiving, disaster topsoul.

Holy shit. This guy is fucking nuts.

He doesn't slide very far, probably because the impact forced so much of his momentum against the coping, but it's a clean grind nonetheless. On his next rise up the other side of the ramp, he finally alights on the platform, ending his run and wiping the sweat from his brow and upper lip.

Okay.

Cool. Perfect. Lancey Lance's time to shine. He's gonna show this guy what _real_ skating looks like―

After barely three breaths, before Lance can even make it to the edge of the coping, the guy rolls back over and drops in again.

What the fuck!

"Hey!" Lance yells. "Hey, Shima!"

Amazingly, the dude does get back up out of the ramp, on Lance's side of the platform this time. He looks puzzled. "…Shima?"

"Yeah. Shima." Lance gestures to show how obvious this should be. "Brian Shima? Rolled for Razors forever, invented the skate brand you're wearing?" He can't resist. "Also had a mullet just like that, but back in like 2005?"

"I know who Brian Shima is," the guy says. "What I don't know is what your problem is."

" _My_ problem?"

"Yeah. Why would you yell at me in the middle of a run? Can't you see I'm busy trying to not die?"

"You could be _less_ careful, for all I care," Lance bristles. "Middle of a run, my ass. You _just_ finished a run, and then started another one. Ever hear of sharing the park?"

The guy arches one of his thick eyebrows. "Oh? You skate?"

"I– Do I–?!" Lance balks. "Of _course_ I fucking–! I'm wearing skates! I've been out here hitting the same ramps and shit you have, for the last like, hour!"

"Really?" The guy grabs a water bottle from where it's been tucked against the wall of another ramp. "Because it _looks_ like you're more interested in talking shit than skating."

"Oh my god." He's done. He's so done. So far this guy has done nothing but prove Lance's initial dislike justified, and he has the nerve to try and call Lance out. Even the way this guy _drinks water_ pisses Lance off somehow. "Whatever, dude. Just stay out of my way."

Lance drops in, and focuses on using that extra, angry energy as an asset. He takes a couple of pumps back and forth to feel the ramp out ― relax his knees, get his body in rhythm ― and then hit some grinds. The guy is still on the platform, which means three things to Lance: 1) This is his chance to show him that Lance _isn't_ someone he can ignore. 2) If he fucks up, he's probably gonna get made fun of. And, 3) once Lance's run is over and the guy gets another chance in the ramp, who knows when he'll get to drop in again?

So he makes the most of his run.

Back fahrvergnügen, to start out. Nice and easy; get low, make it stylish. Then a topsoul. Hm, the coping could use a little more wax, maybe. No problem, though. Kindgrind, fakie out. Stall. Front royale to top pornstar, 180 out. He stalls again, feeling pretty good. Next maybe―

A simple back royale, distracted as Shiro rolls into view on the platform, next to the new guy. He puts a hand on his shoulder, and Lance vaguely hears something like, "Making friends?" as he lines up his next grind.

Alley-oop fishbrain. With a soul-grab, because why not. And _no_ , mullet guy is _not_ making friends.

Shiro whoops in encouragement, and Lance wants to keep going, but his legs are getting a little tired now. He does a nice, easy mizou to back unity, and then calls it, rolling back up to the platform. Shiro cheers supportively, and clasps Lance's hand.

"Nice, that was smooth, Lance!" Shiro says, offering Lance a quick fistbump. "I see you've met my brother?"

Oh.

Said brother pays no attention to Lance, heading right back to the coping to drop in again.

"I guess so," Lance replies. "Didn't realize you were related. There's no resemblance." They are both Asian, he supposes. But that's where the similarities end. Their manners couldn't be more different.

"He's been living in Texas, with his mom," Shiro explains. "He can be a little… brusque, at first," now _that's_ an understatement, Lance thinks, "but past all that, he's as kind as they come."

"Must be a thick, thick wall," Lance jokes. He doesn't really want to say the wrong thing here. Shiro seems to genuinely care about this guy, and if Lance gives in to the fierce urge to talk trash about him ― as much as he definitely deserves every insult Lance can already taste on his tongue ― he might disappoint the man he's been trying so long to impress.

Shiro just chuckles, unaware of Lance's struggles. "Yeah," he admits, "but all the better that he's met you, now. No one's better than you at bringing the crew together."

Wow, what?

Lance had no idea Shiro thought he was the best at _anything_. And, granted, it's not skating, but it's something that sounds important nevertheless. That _is_ important, right? Huh. Almost makes him feel bad for not making the good impression on his brother that Shiro seems to think he did. _Almost_.

"So…" Lance wonders, "why didn't you just call me over earlier and introduce us or something?"

Shiro quirks an eyebrow at him. His brother does a huge rocket-grab air in the half-pipe. "He made me promise not to."

"Hah, what?"

Shiro leans over. "He's been skating all by himself for the last two years. He was so nervous about skating around other people, he wouldn't even come here with me unless I promised I wouldn't overwhelm him with introductions."

Well. That explains a lot.

The new guy launches at that moment, and nails the disaster topsoul again.

"Heyyyy! You did it!" Shiro cheers loudly, his attention back on his brother. Lance could have been peeved at how abruptly the conversation got derailed, but the new guy rolls back up to the platform and Shiro is still gushing over his apparently new trick. Shiro pats his helmet, loose enough to be dislodged a bit by the treatment, so the guy goes ahead and just takes it off, and―

Oh. Okay. So _that's_ what he looks like when he smiles.

Fuck.

\---

He forgets to actually find out what the guy's name is.

* * *

But he recognizes the hair sticking out of the back of the helmet the next time they're at the park, and his call of "Hey, mullet!" does not go unnoticed.

Maybe they're not the friends that Shiro wishes they were. But if Lance happens to challenge him on every section of the park he skates, it'll still have the effect of goading him into social interaction. Right?

* * *

"Yeah, Keith!" Shiro shouts. "Hell yeah!"

Keith. His name is Keith.

* * *

Lance has never really been that great at airs, honestly. He can do some simple ones, but he definitely prefers the feeling of grinds. He likes knowing exactly where his feet need to go, thanks.

Which is why he's _so pissed_ at himself for trying to keep up with Keith's tricks.

He doesn't always. But when he's feeling particularly brave and he sees Keith do something just close enough to the border of his comfort zone, Lance will try it. Sometimes he lands it, but just barely. Sometimes, he nails it so solidly, he wonders why he'd never tried it before.

Sometimes, he eats shit.

Keith rolls over to him, with that shitty half smirk on his face ― listen, only _jerks_ can look that handsome and that smug at the same time ― and reaches down.

"Almost," Keith says teasingly.

Lance knocks his hand away, "Fuck off!" and gets up to try it again.

\---

They're skating the street box, and Keith tries a grind Lance has never seen him do before.

It's the same grind Lance just did like, the run before last. A switch-up: half-cab top pornstar to kindgrind.

It's not easy. Keith does get the half-cab top porn, but Lance watches as he struggles with the switch, slipping off the H-block of his back foot while trying rotate his body into place for the kindgrind. He barely catches himself from bruising his nice ass on the coping.

Keith makes a frustrated sound and heads back up the ramp near the beginning of the street section.

On Lance's turn, he sees Keith watching him. He's got that focused glare on his face that, a couple weeks ago, Lance would have interpreted as Keith being jealous that Lance could do something that he couldn't. But now, Lance sees it for what it is: sharply analytical.

Lance does the switch-up again. He takes care to show off the rhythm of his knees as he pulls weight off of the first grind ― the switch from H-block to topside is less of a pivot than it is a careful hop ― the momentum transfer as his other foot swings all the way around to the back to lead the kindgrind, the smoothness as he bends his knees again to get low and lock everything in. It feels so good, and he's already got the angular momentum, he could probably 180 out. Or even 360. But… he'll spare Keith this time.

As he's rolling back up to the start of the run, he deliberately locks eyes with Keith again, quirking an eyebrow in equal parts challenge and curiosity.

Keith tries it again.

Really, he's not that far off. His rhythm is good. But he relies too much on instinct to tell him how much to rotate his body, and his switch foot misses again. This time, he _does_ go down.

Lance mourns for Keith's ass. It doesn't stop him from chuckling as he makes his way over, extending a hand.

To his surprise, Keith takes it. He hauls himself up, scowling the whole time. "This switch is fucking– stupid."

"You gotta control your momentum, dude," Lance tells him, moderately smug about being the one qualified to give advice, for once. "Precision, not power. Go further than you have to, and you're dead."

"Fuck this," Keith growls, rubbing his backside.

Despite that, Lance watches Keith try it two more times, until he finally gets it.

Lance doesn't cheer for him; but for the rest of their session in the street section, he does grinds he's never seen Keith try, and Keith rises to every challenge.

\---

Shiro laughs when Lance one day makes an off-hand reference to that first fateful meeting between him and Keith. He apparently didn't know it had gone that badly. Lance is surprised. He'd thought Keith would have told him all about it, and disparaged Lance to the fullest extent possible.

"That's so funny," Shiro laughs brightly, as if he's not turning Lance's world upside down. "You know, he's been so impressed by you since that very first day. Said he never saw anyone make grinds look that easy." Lance's heart skips in his chest. "When he's having a really bad day, sometimes I think he comes out here just to skate with you."

Unbidden returns the feeling of seeing Keith smile for the first time, proud and excited, covered in sweat and park grime.

Lance is going to pass out. His heart has no fuckin business beating this fast.

He covers up the flush on his face by taking a massive swig from his water bottle.

\---

"Ah–! Fuck!"

Lance topples and slides down the ramp for the fourth time. His ass hurts, and he knocked his helmet against the ramp that time. Also, he's pretty sure he's burned a hole in his jeans, finally.

Gen. 1 Nimhs with bright red featherlite frames roll to a stop in his peripheral.

"Goddamnit," Lance summarizes.

Keith's hand reaches down for him, covered in those beat-up fingerless gloves. How often did Keith fuck up his palms falling? Sliding down ramps like this? Were they as scarred and cut up as Lance's underneath that leather?

Lance hisses in pain as he reaches up and clasps Keith's hand. "Fuck," he reiterates. "How the _fuck_ do you keep your weight leaned forward when you rotate like that? This is _killing_ me." Being upright feels almost worse. Yeah, there's definitely a hole in his jeans.

Keith doesn't laugh at him, or lord his skills over Lance. Instead, he squints, like he's never thought about explaining it before. "It's sort of… like… You can't half-ass it."

"Gee thanks, that helps."

"No, I mean," Keith tries again. "There's no way to bail, right? You wanna feel like you're in a position to just land on your feet if you come down too low on the ramp, but you can't. You have to throw yourself into it, and just trust that your body knows what to do."

"Huh."

"Flat-rocker helps with the sliding, too." Keith adds. That's fair, Lance supposes. Keith has four more wheels touching the ramps than Lance. More wheels, better surface grip.

He sighs. "Not much I can do about that right this second, I guess."

But his mamá didn't raise a damn quitter, either.

He tries again.

And again.

When he finally lands it, a full mute-grab 360 air, fakie out and everything, Keith cheers. Louder than everyone else.

\---

Keith ups his game two weeks later by landing a _misty flip_ in the half-pipe.

Lance's jaw drops, and Keith smirks at him like he can _see_ the stars in Lance's eyes.

\---

"You hungry?" Lance asks one day, as they're taking their skates off. He focuses very hard on his laces, instead of Keith's surprised face as he removes his helmet.

"Yeah," Keith says. "Yeah, of course."

Lance does a quick checkup on his grind plates. He wears them down so _fast_ , Jesus. "Of course, yeah," he says, "We did just burn like, a million calories."

"A million? We might be dead."

"You feeling pulled pork? Hunk cooks dinner whenever he and Pidge skate with the crew." There's an awkward silence. Lance finally gets up the nerve to look at Keith, and the guy looks like he's never heard of food before. Oh man, he'd be _so_ easy to make fun of right now, except that Lance knows exactly what kind of a first this really is for the two of them. And, frankly, it feels monumental to him, too. "I'm asking if you wanna come, dude."

"Yeah," Keith finally responds. "Sure, I'll come."

"Cool." God, this is crazy. What is Keith even _like_ outside of the skatepark? Does he actually exist outside these walls, or will he disintegrate upon contact with fresh air, like Lance only dreamed that he had the balls to ask him to hang out?

Is his hair ever clean? What would it look like? Is his wardrobe more varied than just black t-shirts and pants, when he's not at risk of destroying them? When he's hanging out with friends? Going to work? On a date? What kind of stuff does he like to talk about, besides skates and tricks? Does he ever make that face of intense concentration any other―

"Oh," Lance remembers suddenly, "Shiro is invited, too." Shit, he could have led with that, to make it less awkward. Since when is Shiro the afterthought, comparatively?

Keith glances toward his brother, on the other side of the platform, engrossed in his phone. "Pretty sure he already has dinner plans."

Lance slips on his shoes, "Ah, okay," and starts packing his skates and wax. "Need a ride, then?"

"If you don't mind."

"Cool. C'mon."

* * *

"Frostbite Grindfest."

"Really? You're going?"

"Yeah, Shiro's competing in the pros, so I'll probably try the amateurs. I don't think I'll get far, but―"

"Why not? Dude, you're good."

"…I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Bullshit. I said your hair would look good if it were clean, last week."

"'Might.' You said it 'might' look good."

"Shit, I wonder if my friend Allura will be there? She lives in like, Narnia, now, but Frostbite is huge. Maybe she'd go."

"Heh, got a crush?"

"Shut up! Not for like, years, man. She's been out of my league forever. Honestly, she should be pro already ― you should see this woman's quads, dude. She makes handrails look like itty bitty curbs."

"Huh. Looking forward to meeting her, then."

* * *

You know, Hunk was right. Lance _is_ starting to hate the savannah. Not because he's bad at it; in fact, out of everyone in their crew, Lance is by far the most consistent at it.

He's starting to hate it because Keith sucks at it.

And when Keith sucks at something, he gets _stubborn_ about figuring it out.

Even in the half-pipe, you can get really hurt fucking up savannahs. Lance knows, because he's gotten hurt. Plenty. And he didn't really mind it then ― nothing ever hurt him bad enough to _stop_ him ― he'd just get back up, over and over.

But watching Keith practice like this has him on-edge worse than a suspense thriller. Worse than his final exams last semester. Worse than wondering whether or not his mamá is gonna catch a fib. Worse than… maybe anything.

"Fuck– Keith!"

It's almost a catharsis when the H-block of Keith's back foot clips the coping, and he finally loses it. His hip gets banged against the metal pretty hard, and his elbow, too. His shoulder takes a bad burn down the ramp– Shit, fuck, Lance is practically falling down the ramp himself in his haste to get to Keith's side.

Keith is clutching his elbow, cursing, but he's all in one piece. "I'm fine. I'm okay. Just– hurts like _hell_."

"Want me to get Shiro?"

"No, no, _ugh_. It's fine."

"Okay."

"I just gotta–"

"Okay. Okay, here, come on."

* * *

At their park, there's almost never any beef between the different extreme sports. BMX bikers, skateboarders, even scooter kids ― Lance gets along with all of them, because they all share the park.

Except this one group of skateboarders. They'll hoard entire sections of the park, because one of them is the son of the park owner, and the whole group will harass the rollerbladers relentlessly if they can get away with it.

As long as Shiro is around, they generally won't start shit. But Shiro is working late today.

Pidge and Hunk are there, at least. Safety in numbers, right? And Hunk is a big dude. If you don't know what a sweetheart he is, he can be kind of intimidating. Lance thinks they're in the clear, until the biggest one of the skateboarders starts picking on Pidge. He can't see what's being said, but Pidge is like, the smartest person he knows. She'll know to blow this shit off, right?

Except when Pidge turns away, the big skateboarder looks livid.

God, fuck, Pidge and her big brain and snappy comebacks. She probably just made it worse.

Lance has a bad feeling, and rolls down the ramp to head toward her. They can just move to a different part of the park. He's nearly to her, trying to think of how to convince her to just let it go, when suddenly in his peripheral―

Oh _god_ ―

He reflexively flings her behind him and turns his body―

The skateboard comes flying hard into his shoulder and his back, and he can't help but yelp. It actually _hurts_ so bad he falls to his knees.

"Oh my god, _Lance_ –!" Pidge cries out.

Goddamnit, Pidge is a lot shorter than him, that was aimed at her fucking _head_ , these _assholes_ ―

"Oops," the guy with the stringy platinum hair says ― Lotor? Is that his name? ― as sarcastically and greasily as possible, as if to leave no doubt whatsoever that the blow was intentional. "My board slipped."

Lance's shoulder _aches_. If it had been Pidge, that shit would have broken her _nose_. "You," he seethes.

A leather-covered fist comes out of nowhere at basically the speed of light, and socks maybe-Lotor right in the jaw.

What the fuck?

"K-Keith!" Lance is horrified. Lance is impressed. Lance is a little bit in love. "Keith, no―"

"Shut up! And you," Keith snarls at the big skateboarder, "Help your asshole friend up so he can fight with his goddamn fists. How _dare_ you assault someone with your fucking board, you fucking _coward_ ―"

"Oh ho," Lotor laughs darkly, wiping his lip with the back of one hand as the big girl drags him up by his other, "you want to pick a real fight?"

"Keith, stop it!" Lance moves to get up, but ― " _Ah_ –! Fuck–" ― his back spasms in pain. Embarrassing as that is, it's effective at least in that it draws Keith's attention away from the impending brawl and onto him instead.

Keith goes from offensive to defensive in a split second, placing himself between Lance and the two skateboarders and glaring across the distance.

" _Keith_ ," Lance tries again, "Dude, _don't_ , it's not worth getting kicked out, _they're_ not worth it, come on―"

"No, please," Lotor interjects. "I insist, let's do this."

"How about you _don't_ ," Pidge says.

Lance twists to glance behind him, where Pidge now has her phone out, seemingly taking video. Hunk is right at her side with his own phone out, and Lance has never seen the big marshmallow look so ready to throw down. God, Shiro is _not_ gonna be proud of him for letting this happen. He's gotta find a way to keep the damage minimal.

"Okay okay _listen_ ," Lance says. "Everybody wants to beat up everybody else, we get it. Both sides have gotten a hit in―"

"Like I said," Lotor interrupts, "my board _slipped_."

"Nuh uh," Hunk says, "I saw that happen, and so did like all five of the people on that ramp over there."

"Care to try and defend that in court? Our word against yours?"

"Nobody wants a fucking lawsuit!" Lance yells. He winces, and Keith finally reaches down to help him up. "Look, I'm fuckin done for the day," he tells the asshole, rubbing at the sore spot on his shoulder. "You took one of us out. Congrats. You don't skate using your stupid face, so you can just keep going. Isn't that fair enough?"

"Hmmm."

Lance feels Keith's grip on his arm tighten, as Lotor draws out his response as if he's some high and mighty emperor considering a request from peasants.

Finally, he heaves a breath and scoffs. "Fucking fruit booters." He spits at their skates, and turns to walk away.

Keith lunges forward, like he still wants to fight, and Lance barely grabs his shirt in time to reel him back in, gasping at the torque on his back. Hunk joins in holding Keith back, and soon enough Lotor and his friends are already halfway back toward the entrance.

"Who the _fuck_ was that?" Keith growls.

"His dad owns the park," Pidge frowns. "He's probably on his way to tattle on us right now. You okay, Lance?"

Keith immediately turns back toward Lance, and it's wild the way the fury melts from his face to make way for concern. More gentle than Lance knew he could be, he takes the arm on Lance's good side and pulls it over his shoulders for support. Keith's side is warm. Lance wishes fleetingly, futilely, that he could be experiencing it under better circumstances.

"I've been better, I guess. But it's nothing one of Hunk's dinners won't fix. And maybe a bubble bath. Or two." Keith gets them rolling toward the alcove where they keep their belongings. "Come on, let's get out of here."

\---

Keith and Lance get banned from the park for two weeks. Keith is pissed; Lance is unsurprised.

"Sorry, Shiro," Lance apologizes anyway.

But Shiro just pats his good shoulder. "It's okay," he says. "You did a good job. If you hadn't been there, Pidge would be concussed and Keith would have gotten the whole crew banned. Probably forever."

"Hey!" Keith yells from the other room.

"You know," Lance says, just loud enough, "you're completely right."

"Lance!"

"Though I do regret not being there to see Lotor punched in the face…"

"It was _really_ satisfying, honestly," Lance confesses.

" _Thank_ you!" Keith walks in, throwing his hands up. "Finally! Someone admits that I did the right thing!"

"…You're still grounded." Shiro smirks at his little brother.

In the span of Keith's stunned silence, Lance erupts into giggles that quickly escalate into cackly laughter.

"Bullshit!" Keith exclaims. "You can't ground me, I'm twenty-fucking-five years old!"

\---

At twenty-fucking-five years old, Keith Kogane is grounded for three whole days.

Goddamnit, Lance thinks, laughing. Keith is his best friend.

* * *

At least they're banned together.

Lance passes the half-empty bottle back to Keith. "Okay," he says, "Did you go to college?"

Keith takes a short swig of rum, makes the same face he's made every other turn, and sighs. "Yeah, for like two semesters. The only class I liked was t'ai chi, so I quit."

"Huh," Lance's eyebrows raise. "Would have taken you for more of a jiu jitsu kind of guy." He accepts the bottle back.

"They didn't offer it." Keith blinks for a second, sort of squinting as he thinks of another question. When he smirks, Lance almost preemptively brings the bottle to his lips, knowing he'll need the liquid nerve to answer. "Have you _actually_ used that shitty 'top pornstar' joke as a pick-up line before?"

"What?! Who told you that? Which one?!" Lance winces as he comprehends all the words that just fell out of his mouth.

Keith chuckles at his expense, and mercilessly recites, "'You know I'm great in bed, I do top pornstars.'" Keith just smirks wider as Lance's face turns red. "Though I'm impressed that you apparently have more than one."

"Shut up!" Lance avoids addressing that by tipping the bottle back to take his sip.

"So…?"

"Yes, I used it, but only _once_."

"Bet that went well."

"No comment; I answered the question. My turn." He passes the bottle back. Keith accepts it, but the smirk doesn't fall from his face. It stretches the scar that reaches from his jaw up toward his eye. "…Did you get that scar from skating?"

Keith's expression falls into a slack sort of surprise. It's such a sudden change that Lance almost regrets asking. Shit, what if it was from something really terrible? Did he just kill the mood?

"Sorry," he backpedals suddenly. "I can ask something else, if that's too–"

"No, it's fine," Keith cuts in. "I just… forget that it's there, sometimes." His eyes drift toward the right, as if he can see it there on his cheek. "It's not from skating. Shiro and I were in a car accident when we were younger. He got the rawer deal, obviously."

"…His arm?"

"Yeah. You didn't know?"

Lance sits wide-eyed, and shakes his head. "I never asked."

"Oh." Keith sits for a second, remembering belatedly to take his drink from the bottle. He doesn't pass it back right away, though. Instead, after a pause, he continues. "I don't think he'd mind you knowing. It was a long time ago. I was actually more sensitive about it than he was. I dunno― He was the one driving, you know? And he hadn't had his license that long. So people would talk shit like it was his fault. But I was _there_ , I knew what happened, and I would get so pissed. I got in a lot of fights over it."

"Oh, dude," What can Lance even say to that? "That sucks. People are assholes."

"Yeah."

"Is that why you're all _punch first ask questions later_? Force of habit?"

"Pretty much."

"Okay, I kind of get it." Lance concedes. "Not that I _condone_ it, but–"

"That was technically a second question." Keith shoves the bottle back at Lance.

"What?!" Lance takes it, but with a scandalized scoff. "It felt like we were just talking, so–"

"My turn." Keith just bulldozes through Lance's protest. "What got you into aggressive skating?"

Lance groans under his breath, and then takes a long swig.

Keith chuckles. " _This_ is an embarrassing one for you?"

"Shut up. Look, it was _years_ ago, alright?"

"Sure."

"……I tried it to impress a girl."

Keith's face splits into a grin that looks about two seconds from bursting into spluttering laughter. Lance both loves it and hates it at the same time. "Oh my god. Why am I not surprised?"

"I don't skate to impress girls in general!" He huffs in self-defense. "Just– _she_ was a rollerblader, and I thought… it would be a good excuse to spend time together, and maybe I'd be a natural at it, or something, and… I guess I had this whole stupid idea about how it would go. But, so, Shiro lent me a pair of his old skates, and… it was hard as _fuck_ , you know?"

"Of course."

"So I didn't really succeed. At impressing the girl. But I started to kind of appreciate how good she was, and how good Shiro was, and I worked harder at it. And somewhere along the way, wanting the girl to notice me turned into wanting to just get noticed for my skill in general."

"Was it uhhh… what's-her-name? The one you mentioned, who moved."

Lance makes various rejection gestures with his hands. "A bup-up-up! That's a second question."

"You owe me."

" _Ugh_." Lance shoves Keith in the arm, but they're both a little tipsy so Keith just falls onto the floor with a smug smirk. Lance pouts and heaves a dramatic sigh. " _Yes_ , it was Allura. Okay? You're done."

"Fair."

Lance thunks the bottle solidly between them, and Keith uses it as leverage to heft himself back upright. Along the way, his shirt becomes slightly disheveled, and the sleeve over his right shoulder shifts. It reminds Lance ― he's seen Keith shirtless a few times, at the skatepark, and… wow, Lance should probably not think about that when he's tipsy. What was it…? "Alright, bad boy. What's your tattoo?"

Keith hums, and lifts up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo in question. Lance unabashedly takes the opportunity to check it out, since he's been offered. Keith takes his sip. "It's… well, my mom used to skate. It was like, the first thing we were able to bond over when I met her. She had this crew, a bunch of real OGs, you know? From like, Arlo Eisenberg's generation. Every now and then her old crew would get together and roll in Texas. And there was this guy, Kolivan ― he was like, the Shiro of their crew ― he drew it up, and… they all got these tattoos. I got one, 'cause I wanted to kinda…"

"…Carry on the next generation?"

"Yeah, I guess. And… it's kind of a reminder? That I _fit_ somewhere. Or… more like, it _fits_ in me. It filled up this hole where I wasn't connected to anything before, and now I had this connection with my mom." He pauses, and Lance is so invested in what Keith has been telling him that the sudden silence sort of snaps him out of a trance. "Fuck, dude. I dunno if that even makes sense. I'm fuckin… _so_ tipsy right now."

"Fuck," Lance laughs, "me, too. But that's… That's cool, man. Really cool. Your mom sounds like a badass."

"They put it on other shit, too," Keith continues, reaching around to pull a pocket knife from his back pocket. Lance leans forward and sees that it's engraved, with the same weird symbol. "This was my mom's. Oh, guess what the crew was called? You're gonna love this."

"What?"

"The Blade of Marmora."

"Blade of…" Lance squints, stuck on the pocket knife thing for a second. But then― "Oh my god, _blade_ , like, rollerblade. That's so dorky, fuck. You're right, I love it." He drags his palm down his own face and it's so warm, and he's so fuzzy, and Keith is so fucking funny. How did he _ever_ think that Keith wasn't funny?

He's still chuckling when Keith sets the bottle back in front of him. "Okay. You. Any tattoos?"

"Yep," Lance lies. "Got a skate, right on my ass."

"You do _not_."

Lance just laughs again and falls back against the foot of the couch.

\---

Shiro gets home and finds them already passed out on opposite ends of the couch, at only 8:30pm, and nearly grounds them _both_.

He relents when it becomes clear that their subsequent hangovers are enough to teach them a lesson.

* * *

The other thing about being banned together is: It makes it feel more natural to invite Keith out to do stuff by themselves, while the others are all at the skatepark.

"You know," Keith squints, "when you said we were gonna go skate, I thought you meant at like…. an outdoor skatepark, or something."

"Keith, it's January."

"Didn't say I thought it was a good idea."

"And you would have just gone along with it?"

"I go along with a lot of stupid ideas of yours," Keith says, following Lance out of the car anyway. "Like that time you wanted us to try and learn negative grinds."

"It's _good_ to expand our repertoire," Lance defends, leading them across the parking lot toward the entrance of the lobby.

"Or that time you wanted me to teach you how to misty flip off of Hunk's couch."

"That couch is bouncy, and soft, and it seemed like fun!"

"Or that time you challenged me to a milkshake-drinking race."

"Okay, I didn't _know_ you're lactose intolerant."

"Or that time you―"

"I _get it_ , mullet. We don't have to do this, you know. If this is where the line is drawn in the sand, we can go find a shitty outdoor skatepark covered in fuckin frost, and―"

"No! It's fine, I just," Keith hesitates, right as they make it to the admissions counter. "I've never actually _been_ to a roller rink before."

The teenaged girl behind the window snickers a little. Lance buys both their tickets.

\---

"What the hell?" Keith asks, clearly puzzled, "Are those… figure skates?"

They are, indeed. "Yeah man, roller figure skating is a thing," Lance explains, lacing up. "The only kind of skating more obscure than aggressive inline."

Keith's brow is furrowed so deeply as he absorbs this information, Lance wants to take a photo.

"…Are you good?" Keith finally asks.

\---

Lance doesn't know how to define "good" anymore, since he's _horribly_ out of practice and, even if he weren't, he can't try that much flashy shit in the middle of a public session. But he can still land a single axel and a couple of the easier double jumps, for whatever that's worth.

Must be worth a lot, because Keith hasn't stopped staring at him like he's a fucking wonder of the world, ever since he started showing off.

He pulls up out of an outer-back camel spin in the center of the rink, throwing a sparkling smirk toward Keith. Keith starts laughing, open-mouthed, his eyes crinkling shut, loud enough to be heard easily over the music.

_God_ , he's beautiful in the flashing lights, and even more so the closer Lance gets.

"This," Keith gasps out, "explains _so much_ about you."

"Like what?"

"Like– how you _move_ ," Keith says, so earnestly, "how much control you have over your body, and your feet. How you know exactly where your weight is going―" He seems to realize something more. "How you had _so much trouble_ rotating sideways, to do the 360 air!"

Lance laughs, he hadn't even really thought of it that way, but, "Fuck, you're totally right!"

"The 360 part was clearly not the problem," Keith deduces, "since you're out here doing fuckin 720s without breaking a sweat."

"I used to be able to do…" Lance has to think about the math for a second, never his strong suit. "The double axel is a 900, and I could only do a couple of triples, but those are 1080s."

"Jesus, that's insane. And you," Keith wavers, like he's not sure what words to use, "you just stopped doing it? All this?"

"I guess."

"Why? Seems like you were really good."

"Hah," Lance squawks. "If by 'really good' you mean better than all like, five other people in the country in my division, then sure."

A vexed expression twists Keith's features. "…Wouldn't that make you, I dunno, national champion? Why are you making that sound so boring? You, who loves to brag about beating anyone at anything?"

Lance makes an offended sound. "Okay, first of all, fuck you. And second, _because_ ―" Lance has to think about how to say this. "So, I've got two sisters, you know? And two brothers, but I was the only one they could convince to take skating lessons with them. Veronica did singles, and so did I, and Rachel and I did pairs together. They both kinda… grew out of it, eventually, and I kept skating and competing for a little longer, but…"

"…It was lonely?" Keith guesses.

"…Yeah," Lance smiles, a little lopsided, maybe ruefully. He hopes this doesn't sound spoiled, or pitiful. "I still enjoy it though. I mean, jumping and spinning and shit is pretty fun."

"Looks like it."

There's a short, comfortable pause, during which an idea blooms in Lance's head. "Wanna learn how to do a waltz jump?"

"Oh, uh…" Surprise morphs into a mix of trepidation and curiosity on Keith's face. "I dunno. Maybe? What is that?"

"Just a little baby 180. Here, like this."

With surprisingly little resistance, Lance teaches Keith the waltz jump, and a two-foot spin. His aggressive skates don't really allow for much more than that, but it's plenty. Keith has laughed more in one night than in the entire rest of the time Lance has known him.

Eventually, they start to wind down. Once Lance's skates are off ― fuck, he always gets blisters _right on his arch_ now ― he starts his cooldown stretches, showing some TLC to those specific muscles he just used for the first time in a while.

Keith is next to him, putting his shoes on. "I didn't skate at all for about a year, in Texas," he says.

Lance turns to meet his gaze. "Shiro said you were skating alone out there."

"Yeah. I thought I wouldn't mind. I was kind of… well, you met me," Keith abridges. Lance snorts. "It did get too lonely though, after a while."

Lance's smile turns into something quietly commiserating. "Yeah."

He finishes his stretches to the tune of "I Wanna Dance With Somebody," by Whitney Houston, echoing across the rink. His legs aren't as tight or tired as he'd expected they'd be, and his back and shoulder are healing up fine. The bruises are still big and yellow and ugly, but the aching is minimal. When he turns again, it's to see Keith watching him pensively as he rubs his shoulder out.

Lance gives him a bashful half-smile. "…I'm really happy you're here, man."

"…Me too."

* * *

When their ban is lifted and they meet back up at the skatepark with everyone else, Lotor and his gang have once again faded into the dirty background of the park.

"Shiro may have… _accidentally_ scared the shit out of Lotor," Pidge explains.

Lance and Keith snicker at each other like preteens.

"Okay, guys," Shiro says. "Anybody wanna actually practice for Frostbite?"

* * *

"Allura!" Lance beelines straight for her unmistakable silver coiffe when he catches sight of it in the giant warehouse of the Coalition Skatepark.

"Lance! You made it!" She's as gorgeous as ever, her eyes bright and her smile sincere as she wraps him in a hug long postponed by distance.

"So good to see you," Lance says. "How's Coran? And all your weird mice?"

"Coran is here somewhere, actually! Though I'm afraid we did leave the mice at home. What about you? Did you bring the whole crew?"

At that moment, Keith catches up to Lance's side. "Some of it!" Lance says, then turns excitedly to Keith. "Keith, this is Allura. Allura, Keith."

"Oh!" A spark of recognition lights Allura's eyes. "Keith as in, Shiro's brother?" But she becomes bashful a moment later. "Not that you aren't your own person, obviously, I don't mean to imply that―"

"It's okay," Keith says, and he sounds genuine. "Shiro's pretty popular. You know him?"

"Yes, we go back a long way, actually," Allura replies. "He's told me a lot about you, over the years."

"Oh no," Keith groans.

Lance chuckles. "Sorry, Allura, the Keith stories are just getting started. He skates with me, now."

"Heaven help me," Allura rolls her eyes. "And help _you_ , indeed," she says to Keith. "I know Lance can be a little much. If you ever need to vent any horrifying 'Lance stories' to anyone, please consider my ear always willing."

"If you wanted blackmail material," Keith offers, "all you had to do was ask. There was this one time―"

"No! No, Keith!" Lance immediately reaches over to cover Keith's mouth.

"―where he wanted to learn how to misty flip, and―"

" _Stop!_ You traitor! You–!"

"and you know Hunk, right? Hunk's couch―"

" _No!_ "

\---

The first night of Frostbite is just open session skating, where pros and amateurs get to mingle throughout the whole park. It's a fun time to screw around and challenge yourself, maybe impress some pros, as long as you temper the enthusiasm with a little bit of caution. Don't wanna get hurt the night before the competition.

Lance watches Shiro from a distance, fist bumping some of the other pros he hasn't seen in a while. Not that long ago, Lance would have been achingly jealous, yearning to be up there at Shiro's wing, schmoozing with all those guys as if he could absorb their skill through osmosis.

But now, he feels entirely different.

Keith is feeling out this downward handrail, trying his safety tricks on it just to make sure he isn't gonna die. Allura is giving him tips, in between her own grinds. Lance's heart thumps hard.

This is like, the best night of his life. Nothing has even happened yet, really. He hasn't laced any insane tricks in front of important people, or anything like that. He's just― really, really happy. His chest is full of fluffy warmth, and he feels like he could do anything.

When he does start getting into it, he gets _into it_. He flows so seamlessly, laughing with Keith and Allura as they all try various levels of tricks, wiping out here and there. Allura lands a fucking full-cab true-spin topsoul to savannah switch-up on the rail, smooth as butter, and Lance mimes swooning into Keith's arms.

Shiro comes over to skate with them, and one by one, other pros join in. The time between each person's turn on the rail increases, but Lance is happy to watch for a little while. Especially as it becomes more and more obvious that Allura is getting the attention she deserves. She's _definitely_ gonna get picked up by a pro team. Hopefully tomorrow.

Keith catches his eye, and flicks his head in the direction of the ten-foot half-pipe. Lance grins.

Hell yes.

\---

"Man, you weren't kidding about Allura."

"Right?!"

"Her quads!"

"Her quads!!!!"

\---

The day of the competition is actually the _worst_ day of Lance's life. Like, worse than his senior prom, which… nevermind. The point is: This is worse.

It's ten minutes before the amateur flight containing both Lance and Allura's registration numbers. They were warming up, and one of Allura's frames _snapped in half_.

"This is absurd," Allura croaks. She's not crying, but she looks… like she's been forced to eat an entire lemon. Rind and all.

"Shit," Lance says. "Maybe we can buy a new set? There's a Fifty-Fifty booth, right?"

They head to the vendor booth, but there's no one behind the table. Either they're out watching the current flight, or they're in the bathroom or something. And Allura is running out of time.

"Goddamnit," Lance decides. "Come on."

He pulls her into a fast roll, helping her balance, hustling to the lockers as fast as he can get them there. As soon as he's got his bag out, he finds his allen wrenches.

"Here, gimme your skates."

"Lance, what are you―"

"Hurry up, I got this."

"What, spare frames?" She tugs off her skates, and one by one hands them to him.

He lifts his own skate to his knee, and starts loosening his frames.

"Lance! No!"

She tries to tug her own skate back, out of his hands, but Lance holds fast, looking up at her with the hardest determination he can express. "Allura. You are a hundred times better than me. You are _going_ to make it to the finals, and pro teams are gonna _watch you_. I could skate, yeah, but if it was without you, knowing I could have _done something_ to fix this, it wouldn't be any fun at all. You get me?"

Allura still looks petrified by indecision.

"Come _on_. Let me do it."

\---

Lance performs the fastest frame switch-out of his life.

He's still sitting in the locker area, staring expressionless at his boots and soul plates, when he hears the announcement calling their flight. Allura's out there. She better fuckin kill it.

Finally he stands, grabbing the remnants of his skates and putting them in his bag. Not like he's gonna need them for the rest of the day, now.

"Lance?!"

Keith is peeked around the corner, and within seconds is storming toward him.

"What's going on?! Where are your skates? Why aren't you out there? Allura's out there without you and she looks like she's gonna fucking cry."

"One of her frames broke."

Keith's face goes blank, as the situation becomes clear to him in tiny, silent, very fast increments. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

"So you just―"

"Yeah." As if in punctuation, Lance picks up the busted frame discarded from Allura's skate, and pads over to chuck it in the trash. They might as well keep the other one. It's still good. Maybe if Allura has another pair at home, it can be a back-up in the future―

"What size are you?"

Lance spaces out. "Huh?"

"What size skate do you wear?" Keith repeats, frustrated with hurry.

"Uhh eight and a half? Nine, depending on the brand." Lance suddenly turns wary. "Why?"

"Fuck," Keith bends down and starts hastily untying his skates. "These might be a little on the small side. I think Nimhs run a little large though? I can't remember."

"Dude," Lance says. "I can't wear your skates."

"Yes you can. Here." He tosses one at Lance, and Lance, with nothing better to do with it in his hands now, almost starts to put it on his foot.

"But… No, no no no no, I've never worn Nimhs in my life, these are gonna feel fucking _weird_."

"Shut up. Beggars can't be choosers."

He puts the skate on. It feels fucking weird. "And how the fuck am I gonna ride flat-rocker? The width for locking H-block tricks is so much narrower―"

Keith tosses him the other skate. "Don't be a baby. It's been months, and I've _never_ seen you miss an H-block grind. Your accuracy is stupid. But remember, you _are_ gonna be faster."

Lance has both skates on in less than a minute, but the run time for his flight is already well underway. Where did he even toss his helmet...? Ah, there it is. "Even if I get out there now, who knows whether or not I'll get comfortable enough in these to _do_ anything―"

"Then you better do less talking, more rolling," Keith urges. "Go. Go go go go―"

"Okay, okay, I'm going!!"

\---

Keith's skates _are_ a little bit on the small side, for Lance, but that's nothing compared to the sheer awkwardness of wearing an entirely different boot and liner. His feet are even angled differently, relative to the ground, and he has to shift how he balances his weight to accommodate.

He wastes precious seconds of the flight just going back and forth, up and down the ramps of the competition section a few times, trying to get used to it.

He _is_ faster. That part feels almost good.

He tries one of his simple safety grinds ― back royale, on a ledge that no one else is using for a second, just in case he wipes out. He definitely feels the difference in how the H-blocks sit with the larger inner wheels, but, miraculously, he stays upright.

After a quick stall on the quarter pipe, he figures he'd better try a soul trick. It's his reverse direction, but an AO mizou might not be too hard.

Oh my _god_ , he realizes―

Keith's soul plates and frames are fucking _fresh_. Even with how Lance has gotten him to work more on his grind game, Keith still grinds a lot less than Lance does. Consequently, his plates aren't worn all to hell like Lance's.

He does a nice, clean topsoul on the way back in his regular direction. _Fuck_ , that feels nice.

Okay, he thinks. Let's see what we can do with this.

\---

A couple minutes later, Lance lands a full-cab top acid to back fahrve, all the way down the handrail.

"Lance!" Allura yells from the top of a ramp, where she's paused, waving her arms with the brightest smile on her face. She's doing _way_ bigger tricks, putting his frames to good use, but frankly, Lance can't complain at all. He sends her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

At the top of his own ramp, he reflexively searches out Keith in the crowd.

His eyes are already on Lance. When their gazes meet, he smirks, full of pride and heat and something personal that Lance wants to dig into and set on fire.

He settles for nailing a kindgrind to soul-grab backslide, to fakie out.

\---

When the flight is over, he doesn't even pause. Just drops his helmet to the floor and barrels directly into Keith, wrapping his arms around the other boy. Joy effervesces off of him, and he hopes Keith can feel it.

"God, you're fucking sweaty," Keith says, smiling into his gross neck.

\---

Lance doesn't make it very far in the competition, but that makes it easier for him to cheer Keith on in amateur semi-finals, and Allura in finals.

Shiro comes in third in the pro division.

Allura ends up with offers from _two_ pro teams.

* * *

Only three weeks after they get back from Frostbite, Keith tells Lance he's leaving for another week and a half.

"Whoa, what?" Lance asks. "Where are you going?"

"Texas," Keith says. "To visit my mom."

"Oh. Long drive, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Feels like we just got _back_ from a road trip."

"True." Keith doesn't trail off, exactly, but Lance can just kind of feel that something is being left unsaid here.

"…What's up, man?"

Keith gets a little red, and then a bunch of words seem to just blurt out of his mouth. It takes a second for Lance to organize them in his brain and register it as, "Do you wanna come with me?"

But even once the words have arranged themselves properly, Lance is speechless to reply. A week and a half? With just Keith? To meet Keith's _mom_? Did he really hear that right, or did he miss a vital part of this conversation where the topic changed to like… getting fast food later?

"I understand if you'd rather not, since we just got back," Keith is continuing while Lance ponders the meaning of life. "And I know you've got work and stuff, and this is pretty long." The more context he supplies for the proposal, the more nervous he sounds. Oh my god. "So, It's fine if you―"

"Yes," Lance finally replies. "Are you serious? Yeah, I'll come with you."

* * *

Keith's hair is dull with dust from the road, and having the windows open only keeps it so cool. It's April. How is it this hot already?

It _is_ a long drive, through a lot of offensively boring land. Lance tries not to daydream about kissing Keith along the way, and fails approximately 28 times.

* * *

Keith introduces his mom as Krolia. She seems pleasantly surprised that Keith brought a friend with him, and, given Keith's general disposition when they first met, Lance can kind of understand why.

It makes him proud, in a weird way. Keith interacts with Pidge and Hunk and the rest of the crew so easily now, and he was even really laidback with Allura, a complete stranger. Even if he doesn't always have the mental energy to be social, he's a lot more stable at dealing with it, now. And with Lance ― they've come so far since they first met, and Lance is proud to think that no one can make Keith smile the way he can, or as much. So, yeah, it's weird, but he's proud of how much happier Keith is these days.

Keith's mom seems to get it, even though Lance doesn't say anything out loud.

* * *

Obviously, they can't go more than like two days without skating.

It's practically midnight, and Keith has run out of local landmarks to show him.

"Wanna skate?" Keith asks.

There's no way any park is open this late, and it's too dark to do jack shit outside. Lance can't bring himself to be concerned. It reminds him of how Keith had been so ready to go along with whatever Lance had planned that day he'd taken Keith to the roller rink. It didn't matter if it was something stupid or dangerous, or utterly impossible. Keith would still do it, with Lance.

And Lance would do anything, with Keith.

"Duh," he replies.

\---

He feels kind of silly and dramatic, in retrospect, when Keith goes up to his mom and says he's "borrowing the keys." Of course. Of _course._ How else did he think Keith had been skating by himself for years?

Whatever. It's not like all that other shit isn't true, anyway.

\---

The skatepark is _huge_. The instant Keith flips the switches for the warehouse lights, Lance is struck by the desire to skate _everything_. There are so many long ledges, so many rails, and sections he can't even see because they're tucked behind giant ramps. Every park is different, arranged in its own unique way, and facing this one for the first time Lance's brain just automatically starts constructing paths and runs and launches to try.

"Oh my god, I want to _live_ here."

"No you don't," Keith says. "Trust me."

And Lance does, with every cell of his body, but Keith is crazy if he thinks Lance won't take the entire week to grind every fucking surface in here.

\---

Lance can tell that Keith knows every corner of this park, from top to bottom. Even the parts he says he doesn't like, he moves through them as if he's never been more comfortable anywhere. He does tricks Lance has never seen him do before, inverted wall stalls and weird spine switch-ups and shit, and just shrugs humbly because apparently it's stuff he always does here.

Even though it's technically a public park, that Keith's mom just happens to own, Lance can't help but feel like it's _Keith's_. When he's learning all the rhythms of the runs, it's like he's learning some fundamental rhythm of Keith. When he explores the park's corners and crevices, it's like he's exploring Keith's corners and crevices. Like he's being shown parts of Keith no one else gets to see.

He wants to _know_ these ramps, these ledges. He wants to put his own tricks on this coping, make these runs _his_ , leave an imprint of himself in this intimate place.

\---

There's a sixty-foot kink ledge up against one side of a wall, with a seven- or eight-foot drop at the end where the ramp is steeper.

Lance back torques down the _entire thing_ , with a safety grab that turns into a panicked flail around the 40-ft mark. By the time he gets to the drop he's actually screaming, because that's _too much speed_ , how the fuck did he not just die? The sheer amount of adrenaline he's got going is making him tremble.

He _has_ to do it again.

\---

Ten minutes later, he's doing triple switch-ups and 540s out of grinds on the drop, and he and Keith are laughing like they've never been afraid of anything.

\---

There's a quarter pipe wedged adjacent to a taller ramp, and Keith shows Lance the run he uses to get up the speed to launch from one to the other.

It's a pretty intimidating launch, to be honest. The bigger ramp is probably twelve feet tall. And Lance is back to riding anti-rocker, so it'll be even more difficult for him to achieve the necessary speed.

"I'm gonna die," he declares. "I'm gonna be just shy on speed, miss the coping, and fall to my death."

"You're gonna be fine, you're a pro at launches now." Keith smirks at him. "Besides, with _your_ anxiety? You're more likely to overcompensate and get _too_ much air."

"Nope." Wow, Keith knows him way too well. "Just because you said that, now I'm gonna overcompensate the other way."

"Will it make you feel better if I stand at the bottom like I can catch you? Even though I definitely can't?"

"I know it makes no sense, but yes."

Keith shrugs and heads down toward the ramp anyway. God, Lance loves him.

He rolls back and forth on the platform for a minute, thinking about what to do, imagining how the launch is gonna feel and how he might bail if he needs to without getting hurt. He doesn't _have_ to try this. He knows, if he really isn't feeling up to it tonight, Keith wouldn't make him feel bad about chickening out.

But he _wants_ to do it.

So, in the end, he's just gotta try.

He shakes out his hands and wrists, his knees, his skates. Takes a deep breath.

And then he's off, flying down the 45, then up and over a smaller box, pumping his legs to get as much speed as he can, approaching the quarter pipe. The launch is gonna be all in his knees. He's just gotta feel it out, throw his whole body into it and trust that it will know what to do―

Keith was right, he's got too much air.

But this is better than not enough air! With too much, he can land on the platform at the top of the ramp if he really wants to bail. He doesn't have much time to decide―

―Lance feels his plates hit the coping, and lock in. He doesn't slide very fast, because so much of his momentum went into the impact, rather than in the direction of the grind, but he's not falling. He's not falling, he's grinding. He's―

He's doing a bonafide disaster topsoul.

He barks out a laugh, and hears the echo of another from the bottom of the ramp. "Oh my _god_ ," he cries out.

It's not the most graceful topsoul he's ever done, but he's on it solidly enough to get out of it just fine, dropping in on the tall ramp like he didn't just fucking commune with a higher power up there. Keith is waiting for him at the bottom, and Lance still has a lot of speed but he just doesn't care.

Why would he care, when Keith doesn't even look worried? When Keith looks so happy and proud and excited? When, even though he claimed he wouldn't catch Lance, he opens his arms up like that?

Lance really is going too fast. Keith's breath is knocked out of him with an _oof_ when Lance hits him, and they're just off-balance enough that the impact sends them down to the floor in a pile of knees and elbows.

But they're laughing, so it's fine. It's _better_ than fine. Keith's arms are still around him, tight and warm, and Lance can feel the planes of his body pressed close. Keith's helmet has been jostled, only half-on already, and Lance props himself up to take a hand and just knock it the rest of the way off. He runs his grimy hand through the front of Keith's equally grimy hair, to get it out of his face, and when Keith meets his eyes it's a rush of adrenaline better than the launch or the drop ledge. He's fiery and grinning, and Lance can't take the desperate ache of his heart anymore.

"Keith," he laughs, like it's overflowing and spilling out of him, and leans down to capture Keith's mouth with his own.

Keith's lips move immediately against his, just as eager. A breath gets stuck in Lance's chest, and his heart trips right over it. Keith's arms tighten around him possessively. Yep, his soul is leaving his body, goodbye. The only thing left in him is hungry instinct, the need to get close, to press himself into Keith, to express in any way possible, in every way possible, how much he loves being with him.

There's a tug at his own helmet, and they break from kissing long enough for Keith to unclasp and yank it off. "Lance," he breathes, pulling Lance back in to slot their lips together again, tangling his fingers in the hair of Lance's nape. Cradling his jaw. Tilting his head. Sliding his tongue into that hot seam between their lips. _Yes_ , Lance wants that, yes yes yes, Lance wants to blur the lines between Keith's body and his own until Keith can feel exactly what he does to Lance. How he makes Lance's blood sing; how he makes Lance excited to be alive, moreso than any kind of skating or anything else; how _everything_ is better when they're together. He shifts his weight on top of Keith, and Keith makes a tiny, eager noise. "Lance, _god_ ," he says.

They kiss open-mouthed, deep and wet, grabbing at each other and shifting around on the floor. Eventually Keith rolls them so he's on top, and Lance moans at the feeling of Keith's weight pressing him down hot and heavy, their legs slotted together. Keith presses another hard, reckless kiss to his mouth, licking in like he wants to devour Lance. And Lance fucking― _melts_ into it. Lets himself be plied, liquescent, molten against Keith's body.

He goes to run his hand through the back of Keith's hair, but there's so much dust in it from the floor that Lance is forced to turn and cough.

"Fuck," he chuckles, as Keith backs off with a concerned expression. "Dude, we're _so_ disgusting right now."

Keith pouts. "You weren't complaining a second ago."

"Yeah, but why are we making out on the fucking _floor_? Whose idea was this?"

"Yours," Keith deadpans. "You started it."

Lance rolls his eyes. "Okay fine, and I'll continue it, but like… how about somewhere we're not gonna contract tetanus?"

"Scared of a little dust?" Keith smirks, and Lance rolls his eyes, realizing that Keith is just trying to give him a hard time. Well, he's succeeding at giving Lance a hard _something_ , alright.

"Tell you what," Lance suggests. "My legs are beat, anyway. If we call it a night and go take real showers, we can make out on the floor of your bedroom instead. We can get disgusting all over again."

\---

Keith is more than happy to accommodate that suggestion.

* * *

Much later, they do, amazingly, make it to Keith's bed.

"It was so weird," Keith tells Lance, brushing his thumb along the curve of Lance's jaw. "You seemed like such a show-off. Like you were always trying to impress everybody. But then, at the most crucial moments, you would give it up, give somebody else the spotlight."

"Hah," Lance snorts, "doesn't mean I _don't_ want attention. You've been right all along, on that one."

"Yeah?" Keith challenges lowly. He shifts his leg around Lance's, presses even closer to his hip. Lance breathes shakily.

"I definitely still thrive on it," he manages to say. "But I guess I have… other priorities, too, if that makes sense."

"Mmm, I get that."

He swallows, turning his head just enough to brush his lips against Keith's palm. "I think… I'm pretty sure I've grown a lot since I met you," he confesses. "Maybe you don't even realize how much. It's sort of funny ― at first, I was so obsessed with impressing people by proving I was better than you. But now," he meets Keith's eyes, willing his own to somehow communicate the depth of his fondness, his warmth, his sincerity, "I think I just wanna impress _you_."

Keith releases a sharp breath through his nose, and leans the rest of the way down to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. <3 
> 
> For anyone curious:  
> \- Keith _really_ looks like [young Brian Shima](https://www.asaentertainment.com/athletes/brian-shima/)  
> \- here's a fairly accurate [dictionary of aggressive rollerblading grinds](https://enacademic.com/dic.nsf/enwiki/11512439).


End file.
